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 Posted: Sun May 15, 2022 3:55 pm
"Got out easy, didn't you. No starseed eating, not taken by the Hall. Luckiest one I've seen."
Faustite stood from where he crouched. The sun never rose or set in the Rift, for there was no sun, but there was light enough for the burning General to cast a flickering shadow on a pile of bones. He gathered a couple of long bones, measured them out in his hands, assessed them for all the ways the Rift wore hard and heavy on anything organic. Scant months had passed, but the remains had skeletonized.
Pity they couldn't send a recovery mission, he thought, as he examined one of the long bones before disappearing it to subspace. He hadn't felt much remorse for it; had he known this one fell, during the mission, he would've made fun of them. Now, he had no mineral or civilian name for this one — only a broken skull, smashed vertebrae, and, of course, the long bones.
"Known or not, you'll do. Blame my sentimentality." A small snort at himself, and Faustite showed the beginnings of a smile.
He remembered nothing of this one, besides being one of the first casualties of the Scar. Someone who, despite being a trained officer of the Negaverse, could not be trusted to climb responsibly and fell at the start of their mission. He doubted Albite would know them, either, but he would certainly recognize the place.
For how could he not? It was from the Scar that he fetched his favorite, most treasured trophy.
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Posted: Sun May 15, 2022 3:56 pm
He had a metal file, a set of scribers, and a long metal tray over which he worked. He oft worked in short bursts, in the early hours, when he knew most slept. It was meditative work — as much a balm for the mind as it was a curse of nostalgia, for years passed since he last picked up such tools. Given that he was human the last time he used them, Faustite had to acquire a new set.
Fine, white dust littered the tray as the sounds of rough scraping echoed in his office. None knocked, few walked the halls, leaving the General to the sounds of his flame, breath, and work. Every time he paused in etching one of the bone cross-sections, he blew out more shavings from its core. Then he would pause, eye it, and drop it onto a jeweler's measure for ring size.
The first cross-section was broken by his indelicacy. The second looked lopsided. The third, fourth, and fifth turned out better than his previous attempts, and it was with these three that he practiced delicate scrimshaw.
It was easiest to first pen out a pattern, or shape, or message. He'd gone through a dozen pages that way — each posed a challenge to translate to bone, or to capture the appropriate meaning for which he looked. He thought, initially, that he should write something across the ring, some message that conveyed layers of meaning, so his boy could ponder that meaning over the years to come. But that, he soon realized, would be pointless; his boy mixed poorly with wit and metaphor.
Beyond that, he found it simply wasn't practical. How could he etch anything of length onto a ring?
Then he considered a scene, in the way that sailors of old would capture ships sailing in on an ocean wave. Diligent contour lines, hatching, and crosshatching could create a readable scene on the smallest of bone fragments. But what scene could he draw? And would he be able to recreate it recognizably, knowing that all their shared experiences would have to come from memory alone?
So he abandoned that thought, too. Then he pondered for a count of days, as he practiced drawling nonsense on the remaining material. Sometimes he carved what was in his mind's eye, sometimes he let his hands wander. Sometimes he had Headache look up some references. Sometimes he had Headache pose. He found flaws with each product, however. Nothing would do.
So he let the project rest for a week, shut up in a drawer on the opposite side of his tea set. He did not touch it, did not look at it. Once enough time had passed and he returned to it, he realized that he should keep the iconography as simple as the boy for which it was made. And that, he supposed, was quite doable.
First, he tried something engraved. Then he tried it embossed, and found the embossed version far more fitting in design. But it needed color, he knew, and the next night's work had him teleporting into a craft store to lift some india ink and wax paper. Once back, it was a simple process to dye the band black and the embossed flame red. It was straightforward enough for his boy to comprehend it.
Satisfied, he unearthed one of his many boxes of medals, and displaced one of the medals from its case. He pressed the ring inside, atop a velvet pillow, and snapped the lacquered top shut before it may threaten to catch fire. He left the box in its drawer for another few days, then finally, in the dead of earliest morning, placed it on a most specific countertop in Albite's dingy apartment.
Only the aftersmell of smoke would betray his trespass.
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